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anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be,

have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes

to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can

treat of.' I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my

poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of

_my_ being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I

felt a thrill of joy through me when I _knew_ that no other woman was a

cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his

face while he sleeps. He is waking!...

 

"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something

from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things.

I saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to

let me look at it--for I knew then that I might find some clue to his

trouble--but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent

me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment.

Then he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the

note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:--

 

"'Wilhelmina'--I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has

never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him--'you know,

dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no

secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to

think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it

was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain

fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to

know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.' For, my

dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are

complete. 'Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is

the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me

know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to

the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell

back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I

have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this

afternoon, and am waiting her reply....

 

* * * * *

 

"She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission

church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon

after as Jonathan awakes....

 

* * * * *

 

"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very

happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he

sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his 'I will' firmly

and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those

words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I

shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities

I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the

chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy, it

is the first time I have written the words 'my husband'--left me alone

with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it

up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon

which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax,

and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it

to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would

be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each

other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake

or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh,

Lucy, it was the first time he took _his wife's_ hand, and said that it

was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go

through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to

have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I

shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the

year.

 

"Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the

happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him

except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love

and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me,

and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn

pledge between us....

 

"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because

it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to

me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from

the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now,

and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that

in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear,

please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of

sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must

not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be

_always_ as happy as I am _now_. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at

once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan

is waking--I must attend to my husband!

 

"Your ever-loving

 

"MINA HARKER."

 

 

_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker._

 

"_Whitby, 30 August._

 

"My dearest Mina,--

 

"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own

home with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to

stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it has

quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of

life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given

up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a

week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting

fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such

walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing

together; and I love him more than ever. He _tells_ me that he loves me

more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me

more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me.

So no more just at present from your loving

 

"LUCY.

 

"P. S.--Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear. "P. P.

S.--We are to be married on 28 September."

 

 

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

 

_20 August._--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has

now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion.

For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one

night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to

himself: "Now I can wait; now I can wait." The attendant came to tell

me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the

strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone

from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--I might

almost say, "cringing"--softness. I was satisfied with his present

condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated,

but finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a strange

thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for,

coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking

furtively at them:--

 

"They think I could hurt you! Fancy _me_ hurting _you_! The fools!"

 

It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated

even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same I

do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in

common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has

he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful

to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the

offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will

only say: "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now,

and I can wait; I can wait."

 

After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet

until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at

length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted

him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.

 

* * * * *

 

... Three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day then quiet

from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It

would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went.

Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He

escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We

shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they

are required....

 

* * * * *

 

_23 August._--"The unexpected always happens." How well Disraeli knew

life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our

subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one

thing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in

future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given

orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,

when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul's

body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!

The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.

 

* * * * *

 

_Later._--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the

attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him

and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow.

Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him

in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me

he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he

would have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing

happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew

calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught

the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked

into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and

ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one

seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had

some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and

presently said:--

 

"You needn't tie me; I shall go quietly!" Without trouble we came back

to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall

not forget this night....

 

 

_Lucy Westenra's Diary_

 

_Hillingham, 24 August._--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things

down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will

be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I

seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the

change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me,

for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so

weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved

when he saw me, and I hadn't the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder

if I could sleep in mother's room to-night. I shall make an excuse and

try.

 

* * * * *

 

_25 August._--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my

proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to

worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the

clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling

asleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I

did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I must then have

fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This

morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains

me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don't seem ever to

get air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I

know he will be miserable to see me so.

 

 

_Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward._

 

"_Albemarle Hotel, 31 August._

 

"My dear Jack,--

 

"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special

disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have

asked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask her mother, for to

disturb the poor lady's mind about her daughter in her present state of

health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is

spoken--disease of the heart--though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I

am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl's mind. I am

almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I

told her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at

first--I know why, old fellow--she finally consented. It will be a

painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for _her_ sake, and

I must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at

Hillingham to-morrow, two o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in

Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being

alone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I

am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I

can after you have seen her. Do not fail!

 

"ARTHUR."

 

 

_Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward._

 

"_1 September._

 

"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully

by to-night's post to Ring. Wire me if necessary."

 

 

_Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood._

 

"_2 September._

 

"My dear old fellow,--

 

"With regard to Miss Westenra's health I hasten to let you know at once

that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady

that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with

her appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when I saw

her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full

opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship

makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can

bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to

draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have

done and propose doing.

 

"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present,

and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew

to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no

doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is.

We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we

got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness

amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with

me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained,

for the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door was closed,

however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair

with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her

high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to

make a diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:--

 

"'I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.' I reminded her

that a doctor's confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously

anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that

matter in a word. 'Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for

myself, but all for him!' So I am quite free.

 

"I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see

the usual anaemic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the

quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord

gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a

slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured

a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative

analysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in

itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite

satisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a

cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something

mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at

times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but

regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she

used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back,

and that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where

Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not

returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of; I

have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of

Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the

world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things

were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your

relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to

your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for

her. Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal

reason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his

wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows

what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher

and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day;

and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron

nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution,

self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the

kindliest and truest heart that beats--these form his equipment for the

noble work that he is doing for mankind--work both in theory and

practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I

tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in

him. I have asked him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra

to-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not

alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.

 

"Yours always,

 

"JOHN SEWARD."

 

 

_Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr.

Seward._

 

"_2 September._

 

"My good Friend,--

 

"When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good

fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have

trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have

trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds

dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so

swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other

friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my

aids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. But it

is pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that I come.

Have then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near

to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too

late on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that

night. But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer

if it must. Till then good-bye, my friend John.

 

"VAN HELSING."

 

 

_Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._

 

"_3 September._

 

"My dear Art,--

 

"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and

found that, by Lucy's discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that

we were alone with her. Van Helsing made a very careful examination of

the patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of

course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned,

but says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you

trust to me in the matter, he said: 'You must tell him all you think.

Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not

jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I asked

what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had

come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his

return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not

be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his

brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the

time comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of

our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for

_The Daily Telegraph_. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the

smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a

student here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make

it. In any case I am to have a letter.

 

"Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first

saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the

ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was

very sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him

feel at ease; though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard

struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick

look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of

all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite

geniality that I could see poor Lucy's pretense of animation merge into

reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation

gently round to his visit, and suavely said:--

 

"'My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so

much beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not

see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a

ghastly pale. To them I say: "Pouf!"' And he snapped his fingers at me

and went on: 'But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can

he'--and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with

which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a

particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of--'know anything

of a young ladies? He has his madams to play with, and to bring them

back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and,

oh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. But the

young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell

themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many

sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to

smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all

to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the

professor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but

said: 'I have made careful examination, but there is no functional

cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has

been, but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anaemic. I have

asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question,

that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say.

And yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go

back home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day; and if

there be cause I shall come again. The disease--for not to be all well

is a disease--interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me

too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come.'

 

"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone.

And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust

your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my

dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who

are both so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and

you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to

come at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from

me."

 

 

_Dr. Seward's Diary._

 

_4 September._--Zooephagous patient still keeps up our interest in him.

He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just

before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew

the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a

run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so

violent that it took all their strength to hold him. In about five

minutes, however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank

into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The

attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really

appalling; I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the

other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite

understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was

some distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and

as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen,

woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show

something directly. I cannot quite understand it.

 

* * * * *

 

_Later._--Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in on

him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He

was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture

by making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of

padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad

conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to

his own room and to have his note-book again. I thought it well to

humour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the

sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a